for battle, he left behind his father’s falchion and
snatched up the steel of Metiscus, his charioteer: so long
as the Teucrians fled straggling before him, the weapon 10
did good service; soon as it came to the divine Vulcanian
armour, the mortal blade, like brittle ice, flew asunder at
the stroke: the fragments sparkle on the yellow sand.
So now in his distraction Turnus flies here and there
over the plain, weaving vague circles in this place and in 15
that: for the Trojans have closed in circle about him,
and here is a spreading marsh, there lofty ramparts to